


on distance

by thecaryatid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Inspired by Violet Evergarden, Love Letters, Mutual Pining, Post-War, Quasi-Historical, Sad with a Happy Ending, set after a vague route where everyone teams up to fight TWSITD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29032563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: My dearest Ingrid,You must be angry that I didn’t say goodbye. I’m upset as well, but not quite upset enough to return. After five years I’ve finally shaken off the bonds of war, but not its shadow. I expect that any letters you send back will miss me, but I do hope you’ll write them anyway. I’m traveling, you see, seeing the places we fought so hard for.Do you miss me?DorotheaDorothea and Ingrid part ways after the war against the Agarthans. It's a mistake.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	on distance

Ingrid stood at the front of the crowd as Dimitri signed the final document stating the terms of their hard-won treaty with Agartha. To his right and left, Edelgard and Dimitri added their own signatures. The crowd’s roar shook the cobblestones, bounced off buildings, rattled every window in the city. She wouldn’t be surprised if it startled birds nesting in the miles-north forest.

The first round of handshakes and congratulations was a duty Ingrid couldn’t escape. As soon as was proper she slipped away from the crowd, loosening her ceremonial coat’s starched collar; she wasn’t used to this warmth, or pageantry, or anything more elaborate than the crisp-but-practical coat she wore through months of war. Besides, there was someone she hadn’t seen yet who should have been part of the night’s celebrations. 

She looked for Dorothea’s long brown hair as she did a slow lap around teh edges of the great hall. As she elbowed her way to the refreshment tables, she kept her ears tuned for any echoes of Dorothea’s laughter. When she made her way back, reluctantly, to the gaggle of generals and nobles surrounding her commander, she waited for Dorothea to materialize from the crowd with one poised step. 

Dorothea did not appear. 

“Is something wrong?” Byleth asked, observant as ever. 

“It’s nothing. Don’t concern yourself, this is a day for celebration.” Ingrid tried to smile, still searching for the last missing face in the crowd. 

* * *

By the time Ingrid thought to look, Dorothea had already slipped away. 

Some generals, she mused as she unpacked her new civilian purchases in a lovely little inn just a stone’s throw from the party of the decade, would stay in the military as the fighting faded, collecting paychecks for their expertise in death. Ingrid had made her choice. She was stubborn as ever, so willing to tie herself to blood and duty, and Dorothea wouldn’t — couldn’t — follow her. She’d rather be one more soldier fading back into a mundane life, pkcing up the pieces of old loves and old loss. 

Dorothea stripped off her sturdy, stained coat for the last time, shoving it to the bottom of her room’s wardrobe. Let the workers here throw it away or keep it for themselves; she didn’t care. She tossed the rest of her uniform after it, forming a pile of nondescript grey, and hummed a quiet, triumphant verse to the empty room. 

In the morning, she walked out into the streets as a civilian, her hair flowing loose over her bright, frivolous clothes. 

There was nothing left to identify her as one of Fodlan’s greatest soldiers. 

Dorothea stopped at a post office on her way to boarding the first train out of town. She purchased a pile of paper, and a fine pen, and addressed an envelope to the headquarters Ingrid was no doubt still stationed at. It took two tries; the flowing sleeves of her dress smeared the ink at first. She dropped it into the post box with a smile, shouldered her light bag, and left. 

* * *

In the morning, Ingrid woke up in a bed softer than belief and dressed herself in starched, rigid finery. She joined the rest of Faerghus’s senior military staff in the first of their peacetime meetings, scrutinizing a map full of red pinpoints marking supply problems, potential enemies, insurrections. The war was over; it was her job to keep it that way. 

She pushed Dorothea’s absence out of mind. If she didn’t want to see Ingrid, so be it. Someday brown hair and clever smiles and distant music would stop dragging her memory back to their last conversations; it was just a matter of time.

Three days later, a letter written in a familiar hand landed on her desk. 

_ My dearest Ingrid,  _

_ You must be angry that I didn’t say goodbye. Well, I’m upset as well, but not quite upset enough to return. After five years I’ve finally shaken off the bonds of war, but not its shadow. I’m still working on that. I expect that any letters you send back will miss me, but I hope you’ll write them anyway. I’m traveling, you see, seeing the places we fought so hard for.  _

_ Do you miss me?  _

_ Dorothea _

In her room, Ingrid took three deep breaths. She read the letter again, noted down the return address, and locked it in a drawer. 

* * *

Dorothea had seen the countryside before, on foot, from the air, even from quick-moving train on the way from battlefield to battlefield. War was a mobile beast; she was no stranger to travel.

Nothing looked the same. The grass couldn’t actually be greener; petty human fights couldn’t change the coming and going of the rain. But from the window of her passenger train, where she sat cushioned in a padded chair and dressed in the silk and ruffles her officer’s salary had bought, everything was different. 

Breakfast was served just as the sun peaked over the horizon, obscured and revealed by passing hills in its morning game of hide-and-seek. Dorothea took a cup of coffee, a plate of pastries, and fresh pear with a musical “thank you. It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?” 

The waiter moved on, and she bit into the first biscuit. Laminated-butter crumbs melted on her tongue, rich sugar coated the roof of her mouth. She flipped open her bag as she munched, laying out her writing supplies on the fine cherry wood table she had all to herself.

_ Dearest Ingrid, _

_ Everything is bright now that I’ve left. Sunrise is a brighter gold, silk is softer, even croissants taste richer. I just ate one that must have been mediocre; passenger trains can’t have proper kitchens, I’m sure, but I can’t recall anything melting so easily in my mouth. Do you remember, in the mountains, when we had fresh cookies after months on rations? Ugly, lumpy things that were more and nut chunks than batter? And yet they tasted as though they came from Enbarr’s finest patisserie.  _

_ Everything tastes like that now.  _

_ Someday, perhaps you’ll leave your citadel and come find me in the fields, and we’ll bake terrible, burned cookies together.  _

Dorothea folded the thick parchment and tucked it into an envelope. She sealed it with wax and pressed a kiss over the fold, not that Ingrid would be able to tell. The next town would have a post office. 

* * *

The letters never seemed to end. Ingrid would receive one, a description of the river flowing past Pendel with an accompanying sketch —  _ I ran into Ignatz, you remember him, dear? The darling ran away a few years ago. He’s an artist now. —  _ and three days later she’d get a new letter stamped with a tiny picture of snowdrops blanketing the ground, the letter inside spritzed with perfume. 

_ They make this scent locally, Ingrid. One of the perfumers told me this variety of snowdrops grows in a very small region, and a few drops will make any scent bright and fresh and unfading. Women pay gold to wear this scent on their weddings, but they let me sample it in exchange for a song. Do you like it?  _

The fragrance lingered on Ingrid’s hands for the rest of the day, following her from room to room. It filled the finely-carved wood box she stored the letters in. It clung to her gloves; she thought she smelled it lingering in her hair as she went to sleep. 

The letters never ceased. The box filled and filled and filled. Ingrid began penning brief responses that Dorothea would never receive. 

_ I could almost see the birds you described flying on the horizon — The perfume reminds me of your hair — I always loved your singing —  _

None of them left her quarters. They said too much. Many of them contained offhand details about the war’s frayed remains that couldn’t just be mailed into the world, and Ingrid would perish if anyone saw those  _ other  _ details, the personal ones that took place in the shadows between battles. 

_ Dorothea, wherever you are _ ,

Ingrid’s pen paused. She didn’t have Dorothea’s skill with sentences. Her kind wrote orders, not poems. But her pen moved again, almost of its own volition. 

_ I miss you. As a soldier, but first as a person. I miss how you tied your hair back with fine ribbons, even when they were hidden under your hat. I miss how you always found moments to remember the fallen. I miss… I miss.  _

Ingrid folded the letter-fragment one and slipped it into the box as well, where Dorothea’s perfume would drown her words.

**Author's Note:**

> woo chapter 1 of my au bang fic! technically this is a pinch hit, but it's also an idea that i've had bouncing around in my head ever since i watched violet evergarden. 
> 
> lin's amazing art will appear in a later chapter! you can find her [here](https://twitter.com/xiaopastry).
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid)


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